The Five Times John Sees Death (and the One Time He Doesn't)
by JustlikeWater
Summary: To John Watson, Death has never been a stranger.


**A/N: ****I've been having so much fun writing nonstop fluff these past few weeks, but then the inspiration for this angsty lil' one shot hit me and I began writing it immediately. I am very proud to say that I wrote this in one sitting-which, if you know how sporadic and short-lived my bouts of focus usually are, is extremely impressive. **

**Oh, and since I am obsessed with all things Shakespeare, I could not resist slipping in a little quote from Macbeth. Can you spot it? ;) **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_The First Time_

_.._

It happens on a beautiful June day. The sun burns high in the sky, a sweet summer wind whispers through the trees, and John Watson revels in his twelfth birthday. With ice cream-sticky fingers and a wide crooked smile, he walks down the pavement, pulling little Harriet behind him in a red wagon.

Harriet hits the side of the wagon with her small hand. "Johnny, hurry up!"

John obligingly quickens the pace. His birthday party starts in an hour and he desperately wants to be on time. "Hush now," he says good-naturedly. "We've got a ways to go until we're close to home."

Harriet is about to say something, her small voice curled around the syllable of her next word, when a loud screech and crashing sound explode through the quiet neighborhood.

A car speeds unsteadily down the street—far faster than it should in a residential area—leaving a crumpled form and clouds of exhaust in its wake.

John stops smiling. Something in the air has changed, something is wrong…

That's when Harry starts screaming. One endless, horrified shriek that drags on for several lifetimes before John finally shakes himself alert and begins sprinting into the street. As he closes the distance between himself and the Thing, he realizes that it isn't a thing at all: it is a _person_.

A boy.

And oh—the blood. The _blood._

John's heart stutters; it falls to his feet, flops around like a fish out of water and then stops beating altogether for the span of a second.

"Hey! Wait!" he roars, turning in the direction of the escaping car. He hears the screeching sound of tires as it races away, heedless of the destruction it has caused.

The boy is very little—perhaps a year older than Harry. His eyes are a clear, crystal blue, his hair is raven-black and curled, and his face is almost cherub-like. In any other setting, he would be a charming child to behold, but right now there is so much blood and bits of flesh and bones that John must bite down on his fist to keep from screaming.

Amongst the mess, there are bones sticking out. In the late afternoon sun, they look as white as his teeth.

The boy is conscious, but John almost wishes he wasn't because the pain etched so clearly in his young, innocent features makes John's heart shudder. Without meaning to, salt water starts to gather in the corners of his eyes and drip down his cheeks. It rolls off his lips, lands on the little boy's forehead.

Eventually, tears and snot make a mess of his face but he's so far gone that he doesn't even bother wiping any of it away. They need a doctor! Doctor's help people, they make things better! Where can they find one?

Harry is still in the wagon several light-years away, rocking back and forth with her hands cupped over her ears. She hums loudly and squeezes her eyes shut because that's what John has always told her to do if things become a bit not good. John wishes he could do the same right now.

They need to tell someone. They need _help_. John turns away from the body and reaches for Harry, his fingertips digging painfully into her small arms. "Harry!" He shouts, so she can hear him through her hands, "Harry, I need you to do something for me, okay? I need you to run down the street and knock on every door until someone answers and then I need you to tell them what happened, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Her bottle-green eyes are wide and overly-bright with tears, and they remind John of shattered sea glass. She nods her head and slowly takes her hands away from her ears. "Okay, Johnny." She stumbles from the wagon and runs down the pavement, her pink dress fluttering up around her like petals.

_I'm sorry, Harry. I'm sorry this is happening. _

The little boy is wheezing hard, the blood spilling from the wet cavity in his side and dripping along his ribs like syrup. John's hands scramble across his form like fretting birds, fingers twisting and curling uselessly above his quivering body. "I'm not a doctor, I don't know what to do, I don't—"

Where is everyone? The neighborhood is not peacefully quiet, it is_ maliciously_ silent. The universe has the power to help them but instead it is leaning back in its chair, arms crossed, pretending to look at the wall or the ceiling and completely ignoring the dying child and the sobbing girl and the shaking, useless boy that _is not a doctor. _

Where are the paramedics, the firemen, the police— god, a _schoolteacher _would be acceptable right now.

But…but it's Sunday, remember? Everyone goes to the afternoon service and some even stay for the evening one. He's not even close to home, either; he's miles and miles away.

No one is here. No one can help him.

John doesn't know what else to do so he grabs the boy's hands and holds them so tightly he can feel the knuckle bones rub together. He starts saying something, a long rumble of nonsensical, pacifying gibberish that might have been comforting if only he were not sobbing freely.

"I'm sorry, you're okay, you're alright, someone's going to come soon, don't worry, just keep breathing you're okay, please be okay, please…"

The boy is gasping and biting his lips bloody in an attempt to bottle a scream. John's mind flickers over every possible comforting thing he can do, settling finally on petting his hair away from his forehead and continuing his stream of placations.

The bright blue of the afternoon sky dims to dusky pinks and deep purples, and John feels as if every passing second is another year on his life. He is not twelve anymore, he is _one hundred._

_Where are you, Harry? _

After what seems like decades, the boy stops shaking and wheezing. His eyelids flutter and his fingers twitch like the tail of a rat caught in a trap—desperate, holding onto the thread of life as persistently as possible—and the quivering in his chest begins to still. For the span of three seconds John allows himself to believe this means he's getting better, healing even, by some miraculous turn of events. Then the three seconds pass and he is forced to realize that this is no longer a boy, this is a _body._

John sits back on his haunches and stares up into the sky. He imagines that he can see the boy's soul curling up and away from the earth like tendrils of smoke against the royal blue canvas of night.

Later, John is wrapped in a blanket—for shock, they tell him—and one of the paramedics bends down and says, "It's not your fault, son. There was nothing that could've helped him."

To which John stoically replies: "If I were a doctor I could've helped him."

On the night of his twelfth birthday, John stares at his ceiling and decides that never again will he just sit by, scared and incompetent and _useless, _while someone is hurt. Never again will he allow a life to slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He falls asleep and dreams of healing; of helping and curing and protecting.

. . .

For John's thirteenth birthday he asks for a stethoscope.

* * *

_The Second Time_

_.._

When the Crows first come in they are told time and time again that it is noble to die in battle, fighting for Queen and Country like any good man should. As time goes on, the latter bits fall away. The mantra becomes, "It is noble to die in battle, fighting for Queen and Country" and then "It is noble to die in battle", until one day it just becomes "It is noble to die".

Which is easy enough to believe when John is young and eager with the Union flag painted across his heart like a tattoo. It's easy to believe when he falls asleep in his bunks every night to the sound track of excited whispers and grand proclamations of giving one's life for the sake of England. It is easy to believe when he's yet to know better.

But when John finds himself holding a dying young man in his arms, hot desert sand burning in his throat and on his eyes and sticking in the soldier's blood, he finds that there is nothing noble about this. Sod it all, this man is _nineteen._

The soldier parts his cracked, bleeding lips and rasps, "Rachel, tell her—tell her," he swallows several times as a stream of blood spills from the corner of his mouth. "Tell her that—that," he gasps, the bullet hole in his lung slowly filling his body with blood. Too much blood. "_Tell her."_ John nods and says "I will," and then the young man smiles, a bloody, broken, wooden smile, and slips into oblivion with the last words, "Thank you."

John packs away his med kit, bundles all his materials together, and moves on to the next body. And the next. Little does he know, the blood from each of these men will remain caked underneath his nails—underneath his _skin_—for years to come. It never quite washes away, despite the soap and the hot water and the "_I'm sorry_"s and the pain. Blood hardly leaves one's soul so easily.

Out, out damned spot.

* * *

_The Third Time_

_.._

Around the time "_For_ _Queen and Country" _begins to sound like a crock of utter shite, John is shot through his shoulder and shipped back home. Just as well, he supposes.

There, he learns _home_ is a rather relative term, because when he returns to London it feels like anything but. He moves into a shoddy flat in the middle of a dubious part of town and only bothers with two necessary pieces of furniture—bed, desk—and his laptop. Day in and day out he sits in his hard wooden chair and stares at the blinking cursor on his screen, his mind a blank slate as he attempts to fill out the empty, meaningless blog that is a perfect reflection of his empty, meaningless life.

His Sig Sauer handgun sits in his desk drawer like an anchor: like a reminder. He contemplates it on a daily basis.

One morning when he wakes up, leg aching a bit more persistently than usual, he feels the strangest urge to scrutinize himself. As he hobbles over to the mirror, he experiences several shadows of emotion: fear, worry, anxiety, anger. He does not know what his reflection will offer, and that scares him.

When he finally steps in front of the mirror, he sees a stranger. "John Watson," he states. He starts to say "I am John Watson," but that feels like a lie, so he stops midway through. _Who are you_?

At this point, John has the option of either crying or laughing, and he chooses the latter because he's shed enough tears for a lifetime already.

So, he does it: he laughs. A short-lived, gravelly burst of laughter that sounds positively hateful even to his own ears. It is so funny—so bloody _hilarious_—that when he looks at himself, he does not know who he is. The sallow skinned, hollow eyed man staring back at him is positively terrifying in his unfamiliarity. This is the kind of man that is living only out of obligation. This is the kind of man John would pity if he saw him trudging along the pavement. He'd probably smile at him sympathetically if only he were five years younger—back when he still knew how to do such a thing—and the man in question were not John himself.

He's seen so much death in his lifetime, but he never expected to see it in himself, buried within his eyes like an illness. He reaches his fingers out to touch the cold glass.

He may have a pulse, his heart still dutifully beats, and he's not a corpse by any means, but that does not mean he is living. He isn't dead, yet he_ is_ in a rather different, vitally important way.

John turns away from the mirror and shuffles back to bed.

* * *

_The Fourth Time_

_.._

When John meets Sherlock, something in his soul awakens; it unfurls like a flower and Sherlock is the sun—and yes, if the git knew he was being compared to something pertaining to the Solar System he'd scowl—but it is nonetheless true. He is mad and beautiful, with wit as sharp as those ridiculous cheekbones of his, and sometimes when John is reading the paper and Sherlock is dissecting something vile, he thinks to himself: _Where was I before you?_

But that all happens later on. Those wonderful, comfortable domestic moments are unbeknownst to John on the first night they meet. On the first night, when pink cases are found and the dramatic character of Mr. Holmes is further fleshed out, John only knows him as the cold genius with sharp eyes and an equally sharp tongue. He lacks social graces and etiquette and does not seem particularly inclined to acquire them, but he is also undeniably _luminescent. _Something about this man pulls John closer the moment he meets him—a romantic might call it a force of magnetism, but John knows better: it is something stronger, something _fiercer _that draws John to Sherlock. He is a black hole that tugs John out of the bland orbit of monotony and into a void of wonders unknown, dangerous chases, mysteries to be solved, and—_Oh god, yes! _He is alive once more!

Therefore, John is not surprised when nine hours after their meeting, he finds himself prepared to kill a man for Sherlock. His hand does not tremble in the slightest as he raises his straightened arm to the cabbie, aims at the right lung—going straight for the heart risks clipping Sherlock's shoulder—and pulls the trigger, knowing full well he has just ended another man's life.

Unlike other times, this death fill his heart with relief, not regret. He lowers the Sig and releases a long shuddering breath he hadn't realized he was holding. As he sneaks from the building under the cover of shadows, he finds himself feeling strangely lighter.

Later, Sherlock approaches him with a knowing look, the ridiculous orange blanket hanging from his slim shoulders like a cape. "Nice shot."

John plays innocent for about ten seconds, before remembering that he is dealing with a man that can deduce the state of one's marriage by the scuffs on a ring. It's rather pointless to attempt to fool him, isn't it?

So John admits it, meets him right in the eyes like the soldier he is. "Yes."

Minutes later, they're giggling—which is entirely inappropriate, Sherlock, _shh_ this is a crime scene!—and John's dopamine levels soar as his blood sings in his veins.

Sherlock smiles, a little half-quirk of the mouth. "Dinner?"

"Starving."

From then on, everything is fantastic and brilliant, because the _game is on_ and Sherlock Holmes will live to see another day and for once, just this once, the death on John's hands shines like a victory. He has saved something precious.

He'll sleep just fine tonight.

* * *

_The Fifth Time_

_.._

"Don't move, stay right where you are."

He is beautiful. Even right now, perched on the edge of the building with his coat billowing behind him like the wings of a raven, he is utterly captivating. So dramatic is this mode of death, so played-up, so _Sherlock_. It really only makes sense that he intends to meet his fate as if he were in a Shakespearean play instead of Reality. This entire act smacks of poetic tragedy. If this were not John's life right now and that were not his best friend, he might've even rolled his eyes at the sheer theatrics of it all.

"No one could be that clever."

Oh, _now_ he'd like to be modest? _No, sorry, detective, YOU could be that clever. You are that clever. Simple as that._

"It was a trick—it was all just a magic trick."

Ah, that's a lie. Does Sherlock really think so little of him? How can he fib so blatantly when John has stared into his eyes multiple times and seen his soul?

_I've seen the truth, Sherlock. You forget that I know you._

John isn't really prepared to believe that Sherlock will die, not even when he says "Goodbye, John" and throws his mobile onto the floor. He doesn't believe he'll die even while he falls, tearing through the air in a graceful swan dive. John doesn't believe he will die until he is crouched two-point-six inches away from Sherlock's bloody, broken body, his fingers pressing fiercely into his still wrist.

There's nothing, no beat no reassurance no sound no heart—

His eyes are a clear, crystal blue, his hair is raven-black and curled, and his face is a glorious juxtaposition of porcelain skin over sharp cheekbones and full lips kissed with blood. In any other setting, he would be a beautiful sight to behold, but right now there is so much gore and bits of flesh and bones that John must bite down on his fist to keep from screaming.

Suddenly, he is twelve years old again, crouched over the body of a dying child, hands coated in blood, useless and sobbing and scared. Except now he's a doctor and he should know better.

Only, it's too late, isn't it? Too late, too bad. John became a doctor to prevent this feeling, but as it turns out, medical school means nothing when a man is already dead and his pulse is as silent as a tomb.

He absently notes that someone is screaming, a long keening note of horror, and it isn't until a paramedic grabs his shoulders and says "It's okay" that he realizes it's _him_. People's faces melt and swirl into indistinguishable flesh-colored splotches hovering over shirt collars—he hardly cares; who's face is worth remembering anyway?—and the noises around him distort like a broken, twisted soundtrack. Someone catches him when he's on the brink of fainting—oops, leg's gone a bit unsteady—and someone else helps him stand, wraps him in a blanket—for shock, they tell him—and says, "Calm down, deep breath, you're going to be okay."

Ah, but that's a lie too. Because John's sun has died, leaving him alone in the universe with no one to orbit, and nothing—_nothing_—is ever going to be okay again.

* * *

_And the One Time _

_.._

John doesn't make a habit of lying himself. Death is final. There are is no rewind button; once someone is gone they are _gone._ He knows denial is useless, so after he visits the grave and begs "Don't be dead", he lets all of his hopes and ridiculous, irrational desires die. He buries them a week after Sherlock and that is the end of it.

He moves on.

No—okay, scratch that. He _tries_ to move on. He does all of those things he did before—dates women, drinks in pubs with a few mates, watches football, works at the clinic—but it all feels so tedious and draining and, worst of all, _temporary._ As if he is still waiting for Sherlock, years later.

Maybe he is.

…

It really should not be okay, but it is.

He comes back on a Tuesday.

One night John just opens his door and there he is, standing on the front porch during a rainstorm, looking rather like a homeless alley cat, what with his too-long hair, starved face, and wide, feral eyes. His pale, skinny form is positively drowning in the signature coat that once fit him as perfectly as a second skin. He hasn't been eating, John absently notes.

In the past two years John has imagined what he would say if he ever got the chance, each wild and unlikely scenario rehearsed and planned accordingly. Hell—he planned for encountering his bloody _ghost _during a séance, but somehow it never occurred to John that he would just show up one evening, soaked down to his socks on John's front porch. He wrote it off as too simple for the Great Holmes, but perhaps the fact that John least expected it is what makes it so completely clever.

A wild sort of anger sizzles through John's veins like fire dancing along a stream of gasoline. _You left me, you jumped and died and you left me all alone in this stupid, gods-forsaken universe. __How could you__? _John's left hand clenches into a fist and he is three measured seconds from chinning him when he says:

_"__John." _

And it is the most broken, pleading, _hopeful_ word John has ever heard him utter. Just like that, the anger saps away, leaving in its place a breath-taking torrent of _relief._

Because, Sherlock—Oh, _Sherlock._

_You came back._

Before John over thinks things or Sherlock lets his maddeningly scientific thoughts get in the way, John dives forward and pulls him into an embrace. He pushes his hands underneath the coat and wraps his arms around Sherlock's small waist, drawing him as close as humanly possible. A soft, shuddering breath escapes Sherlock's lips as he clings back, his entire being cloaking John like a shadow. His short nails snag in John's sweater because he is holding him so fiercely, almost as if he believes John will vanish into thin air.

"I'm here, I'm here," John whispers. Then he pulls back fractionally, just enough to push up on his toes, tilt his head, and press a kiss to Sherlock's trembling lips. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock's eyes remind John of the universe—so vast and incomprehensible; filled with great things that boggle the mind, hidden galaxies, roving planets, and fallen stars that sparkle and explode like fireworks.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and when he speaks again, the aching sincerity of it makes the earth beneath John's feet quiver.

_"__I'm sorry." _

And then,

_"__I love you." _

And John says it too; he whispers it against the soft swell of Sherlock's bottom lip, taps it in Morse code across his ribs and spine. The rain continues to pour in sheets but John could not care less, because his sun has returned, the stars are realigning, and never in his life has he felt so brilliantly, incredibly _alive._

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading, my darlings! As usual, comments, concrit, and feedback are welcomed with open arms and chocolate chip cookies. :)**

**Unimportant Sidenote: I think half the reason I've been so inspired lately is due to the incredible music I've been listening to; If you guys share my adoration for mellow, acoustic songs with breath taking, poetic lyrics then I highly recommend checking out Andrew Bird. I discovered him a few weeks ago and I cannot stop listening to his music. My personal favorites are: Master Fade (bit folksy, but still awesome), The Happy Birthday Song, Oh No!, Imitosis, and The Water Jet Cilice. **

**Anyway, thanks for stopping by! Until next time, lovelies! X0X0**


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